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Thursday, 5 March 2009

My kid brother J has muscled in on the Barnet Bulletin by challenging me to a hair race. He's had his shaved to as close to my length as he could get, and we're now racing each other to see who can grow it the quickest. On your marks, get set, go...

Is it weird that I'm a bit jealous of J's sideburns?

Anyway, if, when you look at that photograph, your reaction is to leave a comment saying something along the lines of, 'you could definitely get away without wearing a wig/headscarf now,' let me stop you right there. Because 'you could get away with it' is ALL I'VE HEARD from the well-meaning family members and select friends who I've allowed a good, close-up look of what's underneath my cranium covering of choice. Thanks all the same, like, but I'm sick of hearing it. Consider it the hair-regrowth equivalent of being told how much I look like my Mum.

Here's the thing: I don't want to 'get away with it'. I want to look fabulous. And I want to do it quicker than my brother. So, until then (early May, by my calculations), I'll be keeping up the pretense, be it beneath a headscarf or wig or hat or paper bag. I want it to be like an episode of Extreme Makeover, with an impressive Big Reveal at the end, when all the work is done – albeit cutting and colouring instead of botox and a boob job. (Actually, does half a boob job count?)

Probably conscious that its days are numbered, I've actually been taking the wig option more often of late, despite the fact that what's growing underneath makes wearing it even more uncomfortable. Plus, I reckon I'll miss making that relieved 'ahh' noise whenever I take it off. (Also applicable to being released from handcuffs, the first sip of lager on a hot day and taking off your high heels in the cab home.) Back in my early wig-wearing days – when my hair was falling out fast, but I wasn't quite bald (the Bobby Charlton stage, if you will) – I bought a little lycra cap that's specially designed for wig-wearers to flatten what remains beneath the syrup, ensuring a better wig-fit. It was a bit like pulling a pop sock over my head. If I'd yanked it down over my eyes, I'd have been one swag bag and a stripy jumper away from turning into a cartoon bank robber. But the pop sock worked, and I suspect that, if I keep up the current wig-wearing status quo with the barnet I'm now growing, I'll be forced to head back to one of the wig shops I swore I'd never again set foot in to buy myself a new hair-flattening device.

I've not ditched the headscarf altogether. It's just that, lately, I've found myself in a few wig-necessary situations. Passport control, for one. What's the protocol on hair loss and passport photos? (See, that's the kind of thing those 'welcome to cancer' leaflets should tell you. I want practicalities, dammit, not a namby-pamby side-panel on 'understanding your emotions'.) In my passport photo, I'm a tanned lass with long, blonde hair (who, inexplicably, looks like she's overdone the valium). But the reality now is, of course, different (I look like I've overdone the Veet, not the valium). So does that necessitate a new passport photo? Would they stop me if I went through airport security in a headscarf, and publicly humiliate me by forcing me to run it through the X-ray machine with my boots, then carry it on board in a see-through plastic bag? Are headscarves now up there with matches, tweezers and copies of the Qur'an as terrorist-suspicion-arousing signals? (Piss-taker that he is, J goes to the other extreme when flying, never travelling without his reading material of The 9/11 Report and Inside The Jihad. Not the recommended way to get an upgrade, I imagine.) All of this only occurred to me the night before our trip to Rome so, to save my blushes, I reached for the rug in the hope that it'd just look like I'd had a haircut, and not had my head shaved by some loony School For Terrorists. Not that the wig stopped me acting suspiciously when I handed over my passport, mind. I put on my very best show of I-get-on-flights-to-Italy-all-the-time nonchalance (chewing gum + headphones + fiddling with iPhone = seasoned traveller), but couldn't do much to disguise the shaking hands, sweaty palms and hot flush. They let me through anyway, of course. I'm sure even airport security staff would rather mess with a terrorist than an early menopausal woman.

Then there's the recommended wig-wearing business of being a tourist in Rome. And not just because I suspect the fashion-conscious Italians would be more receptive to a Hermes headscarf than my H&M one. Nope, tourism = photo-taking, and I was buggered if I was going to look back on family photos of everyone gathered around an obvious-looking cancer patient posing unsteadily outside the Colosseum, like a doddery old dear on day release from the nursing home. There are very few photos in existence of me in a headscarf, and I'm keeping it that way.

All that said, I found out the hard way that certain city-sightseeing situations are less rug-receptive than others. Tourism Tip For Cancer Patients #1: wigs and open-top buses don't mix.

You don't "get away with it," you just look fabulous. I mean Posh spice has gone for the elfin look but looks constantly pointy and miserable. You look like an advert for happiness. Can't wait for the big reveal though. I think that's a great idea.

I think you look very sophisticated. Of course it could just be the photography, but, then, the photo does not look like it has been taken by a professional. The hair, the necklace, the upturned collar, the tilt of your head, and the earring all shout “sophistication”.

Hey, call me crazy (well, you'd probably have to have low standards of "crazy"), but my first thought was "bleached blonde" or "dark brunette", with the added benefit of further freaking your mum. You do look bloody good though (so does your bro', but you can excise this bit of my comment if you're going for the sibling-rivalry win ;-) )

You lot are waaay too kind. What you can't see are the wispy bits at the back of my head where there's not yet a full covering. And, since I'm fully made-up and fake-tanned (and a little bit drunk), it's a generously-lit, flattering photograph (hell, let's be honest, I wouldn't have posted it otherwise).

Tokyo Girl, I may have just fallen a bit in love with you. Nobody has ever before called me sophisticated. Largely because I'm not. Ten minutes after that photo was taken, I was in pyjamas in front of my brother's TV, crucifying No Sleep Til Brooklyn on Guitar Hero.

As for the open-top-bus story, Megan, I'm afraid it's as simple as it sounds. Back seat of sightseeing bus, a gust of wind, a disappearing fringe, and some quick thinking (or good fortune that I was wearing a hoodie).

oh please show me how to play guitar hero. It's one of those things that confuses me. Now to business, I actually before reading the post thought, 'god she's so pretty'. Ner ner ner ner ner. The hair is a bit Lisa Stansfield minus those weird gelled curls stuck to her face, remember them? Was always jealous of her looking all pretty and dramatic with her crop. Missing you muchly.p.s when do we get a post about the tattoo?

I hope you win ;)! (*with a wholehearted laugh-out-loud at your brother's in-flight reading material..maybe his theory is that they WILL upgrade him if he scares enough fellow passengers?*).Heard you on the podcast, you're as good a speaker as a writer!

You're reeally pretty :-) I've been lurking for ages (not a stalker though - still haven't got used to the whole, it's ok to lurk because it's the internet. So this post feels a bit like an embarrassed cough at a party when you've been standing at the edge of a group of people all chatting and it's kind of gone past the point that you can butt in and introduce yourself. aaanyway...)

I felt that this post warranted a comment, as apparently did many other people, who all must have had the initial same reaction - gosh, you're a fox!

I'm really happy for you that you seem to be coming through the woods, as it were. It's weirdly like getting an old friend back, even though I don't know you - I guess that's the power of a blog, eh. Incidentally, I first found out about Alright Tit via a journo friend of yours who featured in the DW Pub JournAlert a few months ago and bigged you up. So grats to him, he got you at least one follower!

I think you look fab. With hair that short your features just pop out. The first thing I notice from the picture is not your hair, but your eyes and your smile... both of which are far more important than a hair-do anyway.

I have a terrible, awful confession. When I saw the photo I didn't think about wigs. I noted that your hair was indeed getting longer and that you looked rather annoyingly glowy...but then just pondered your brother-wondering if he was older or yournger and if he was single! I need to get out more...

You look fabulous :-) its been a while since I dropped in on your blog but glad to read rads are out of the way & your hair is coming back. And I had same worries first hol after hair loss & ended up wearing my wig for passport control too...! Keep smiling xxx

Can I tell you, that I am really envious about your hair? I had it already this length after my first chemo, when I started my second and despite what my doc told me, they started to fall out again... The hair your length - I would throw my wig miles away and go without!!!

Eh up

Welcome to the website of me, Lisa Lynch: author, editor, blogger, wife, Ram, telly-addict, doofus, cancer bitch (but not, I hasten to add, cancer's bitch). The latter of those things is what initially got me blogging, swearing my way through The Bullshit following a pesky breast-cancer diagnosis at 28. Some three years down the line – with newly grown hair, a newly published book and a newly perky rack – I dared to assume that I'd seen the worst… only for the c-word to crop up once more: this time in my bones and brain, and this time incurable.

And so, from being a blog intended to chart my evolution from 'the girl who has cancer' to merely 'the girl', it seems we're back to the former. (If, indeed, it's still acceptable to even call yourself a girl in your thirties. Which, let's be honest, it probably isn't.) But before you write this off as Just Another Moany Health Blog, stick with me. Because cancer or no cancer, curable or incurable… I'll still tell it the way I see it. The universe might be in control of what’s going on in my body, but I'm in control of what’s going on in my blog. Which is why I hope you'll continue to join me as I write my way through my experiences. You see, this isn't a story about some poor, unlucky lass being taken down by cancer; it's simply a story about the extraordinary life of an ordinary girl woman.

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